Attending a new church is one thing; going to an evening service-other than Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve-was, for me, another matter entirely. By myself, not knowing what to expect, I drove across town to a building that appeared to be not much bigger than where I lived with my dad.

I cautiously approached the front, where I was greeted by folks who seemed genuinely glad to see me. So far, so good. To my left were a few classrooms, followed by the all-important bathroom. Inside the small sanctuary were pews, a small platform, and a side room that became significant later on.

I sat with this family who had opened up their home and, more importantly, their hearts to a lost young man. One with no direction. Loving someone who cannot love you back is true love.

The pastor of this church doubled as song leader, accompanied by a woman on the piano. She certainly knew how to play. None of the hymns we sang were familiar. I was used to singing out of a hymnal,-just not the one this church used. Different church. Different people. Different songs. Different, for sure.

I don’t remember the sermon, only that there was no invitation to become a Christian. That was fine with me; I wasn’t ready. The small turnout of around 50 were real people. They seemed to also have what the family I was with had: a genuine interest in me as a person. And no one was trying to get anything from me.

Service over, back to my house. Another week of questions, more questions, and some arguing as my visits continued. Another invitation to attend Sunday service, which I accepted.

The second Sunday evening service was, as I recall, pretty much the same as the first. Same nice people, same hymnal with different songs. Just a different message, with no invitation.

Around this time I asked this now-familiar family for prayer for a job. Young men then-as now- needed their own spending money. A few days later I was hired at a local drug store, a real answer to prayer. This store had a lunch counter and, interesting to me, underground storage bins for overstock. Going below the main floor to store/access merchandise was a space saver-and kind of fun at the same time. To this day I enjoy watching movies with secret passageways and entries.

Getting this job after prayer was an attention getter to someone looking for answers It also caused me to do a better job of managing my time. My part-time income eliminated outside assistance from my Dad.

Being turned down by two colleges meant I was going to the local community college. I could go to school and work part time. With Mom working there I had no tuition, just books. Nice.

Once again I was invited to Sunday evening service with this family. The date was August 17, 1969. Some will remember this date as the last night of some music festival called Woodstock. For me this night was to be beyond anything I had ever dreamed before: A night with a new dream.

I’ll tell you about it in my next post, on August 17th.